The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. ‘You would have a history of my life? Very well. They were bathing in the stream. Not I. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. The pieces fell to the ground in a little white shower.
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